la petite
by variable 4
Summary: Captain America rescues a child from a crumbling mountain.
1. Chapter 1

"Are you alone?" the man asks.

"Yes." The room shakes and the child hides further under the bed. The meagre furnishings of the pale room quake in their place; the lamp in the corner falling over, the dresser rattling against the metal wall, and the flimsy aluminum bed frame ringing with each knocking to the machines around it.

"Will you come with me?"

"Where?"

"Away from here, before it all collapses."  
"There's no away from the Facility, the Facility is everything."

"Will you come out from under the bed at least?"

The child does, crawling forward slowly and wary of the big man who is an intruder in the isolation of her room and her life. She's standing on her legs like a newborn fawn, the tremors in the ground unsettling her balance. The man and child stare at one another, him kneeling to her height, her regarding him in confusion and fear. He lays the circle of red, white, and blue beside him and pulls off his helmet, revealing a mess of yellow. She's never seen that sort of yellow before.

"There, that wasn't so bad. Will you come closer?" She does – curious about the yellow – and comes close enough for him to rest his hands on her shoulders and check her over for possible injuries. She tries not to flinch when large hands settle on her. He finds no wounds but her size is concerning. "How old are you?"

"I don't know." The man thinks for a moment and decides to get information later, get to safety now.

"C'mon, let's go." He tries to pick her up, but the second her feet are off the ground she starts kicking in all directions, squirming viciously, and manages to wriggle out of his grasp, landing hard on the floor in a heap. "Hey, hey," he says with his arms up, his voice placating and soft. "I won't hurt you. I just want to get us out of here."

"I'm not allowed out of the room. Not unless a Grey is with me."

"A grey?"  
"The Grey people. You're blue." The child says nothing for a time, and the world around them only shudders more and more violently. The man is clearly impatient to be away, but waits. Her face scrunches in thought and consideration and he knows somethings's going on in her head. The look shifts, a decision made in her mind, and becomes one of shaky resolution. The girl carefully stands again, and raises her hand to the man, who gently takes it in his own and watches as a stubborn determination sets on her face. "I don't like grey. Blue is nice."

.  
.

The hallways are collapsing, steel support beams doing little for the deteriorating stone of the Facility. Captain America has his trusted shield in one hand, and a frightened child in the other. There had been other children in metal rooms similar to the one he'd found the girl currently holding onto him in. The main difference between them and her though, was that she was alive. Quivering under the ratted bed, mismatched eyes filled only with fright, but very much alive. He holds her tightly to his chest now, careful not to crush her with his enhanced strength as they make their escape.

There are scientists and security guards strewn across the floor like forgotten laundry of someone's floor, involuntarily there yet given little thought by passersby other than 'You're in the way'. Matching the neutral tones of earth and stone, the bodies scattered about are garbed in grey, from lab coats to head-to-toe armor, not a spot of real colour taints the monotony.

"I've never been this far from my room."

"If we have it my way," he starts but pauses to squeeze past two precariously placed slabs of rock. "My way, we'll never see this place again."

"Where are you taking me?"

The Captain doesn't think about his answer until he says it, letting the first thing that comes to mind slip from his lips. "Home."

The girl seems to refrain from questions, although he can hear a few mumbled without any real desire to be answered, and so he doesn't, focusing on dodging falling rocks, scraps of clawed metal, hanging electrical wires that reach for the pair with sparking hands, and making sure none of the debris hits his passenger. The only thing he can think of that would do this much systematic damage to an establishment built in a mountain would be self-destruct countermeasures. His shield is put to good use as an umbrella, and once they reach a relatively safe area, he sets the girl down and fits his helmet onto her head, tightening the strap as far as it could. The head covering engulfs her head, not at all a good fit but at least she's got more protection. She removes one hand tentatively from his neck to pull down on the strap and hold the rest in place better.

He scoops her up again and asks, "Ready to go?" With her nod, they're speeding through the crumbling corridors, each step bringing them closer to safety.

.  
.

"See, we're outside now. There are whole worlds outside the… Facility."

"What's that?" she asks pointing to the horizon with one hand and keeping the other around his neck. It's bright out, much brighter than anything in the Faciliy, so the man takes them into the shadow of a large boulder when he sees her squinting and covering her eyes. The Blue man is much nicer than the Grey men. Warmer too.

"Those are mountains. We're on one too." The child looks curiously to the ground they stand on and then around at everything else.

"What's that?"  
"Snow."  
"That?"  
"Trees."  
"That?"  
"Clouds."

Just behind them there's a _whoosh_ and a **thud**, one that the man in blue seems glad to hear but makes the girl cling tighter to the blue that she's deemed as _safe_.

"And that's Iron Man. Don't let the armor scare you," he murmurs soothingly, which at least gets the alarmed girl to look up from the shoulder she'd buried into. The gold faceplate comes up and the man within flashes a smile. The girl doesn't react to it.

"Who's the kid?"  
"Found her inside."

"Alright-y. Well, quinjet'll be here in a bit. I flew ahead. You really need to stop losing your comms, Cap. The Captain's getting old, isn't he kid?"

The girl looks to the Blue man, what did the Red man say?

"_Capitaine?_"

"_Oui, je suis un capitaine. Tu sais c'est quoi un capitaine?_" She nods and feels somewhat embarrassed for holding onto a man of his importance so tightly. Not that she'll let go anytime soon.

"ETA back home?"

"Eight hours. Shave of an hour if Widow's flying."  
"Who else would fly?"

"Some baby agent… Blike, Blake, Black, or… something. First mission flight and I jumped ship to get here because he's so slow. I swear–"

The girl stops listening to the gabble between red and blue, instead setting her head on the _Capitaine_'s shoulder, giving into a wave of tiredness that has her eyes drooping and mouth stretching wide in a yawn.

"_Dormir, ma petite_."

"_J'suis pas le tien_," she murmurs with a sleepy pout.

"_Dormir, la petite_."

* * *

Yeah, not sure where this came from. Might write more. Maybe not. If I do then they'll be more drabble-y than plot oriented. Also fluff, because I like fluff.

That be all.

Review?


	2. Chapter 2

"You can't throw her in a cell. She's just a kid!"

"That may be, Captain, but she's also someone's science experiment with undetermined capabilities. That 'facility' saw through research on engineered mutations along with human testing for said research. She is the closest thing to a lead we've had to this group in years. We need to know what her capabilities are."

"Director, I know all that, but won't let you poke and prod her like a lab rat and–"

"Stop for a second, Capsicle. Let me plead your case for a bit."

"_Capitaine?_"

"_Ici, la petite_."

"_T'es pas bleu_." She pulls at the black sleeve of his pullover, tugging it flat over his warm arm.

"_Je m'excuse._"

There are two other men in the room, one with dark hair and one with dark skin and black clothing. They're arguing, over what: she doesn't know. It's the same nonsense she'd heard between Red man and Blue man. _Capitaine Bleu?_

He explains who they are, giving names that feel strange on her tongue. Neither of them pay her much mind even if she's sitting right near them. She doesn't quite understand how the man with dark hair is also the Red man who could fly, but doesn't try to make sense of it right now.

The men talk for a long time, voices rising and falling so often that it all starts to sound like a buzz. Even the Capitaine raises his voice from time to time. When the two dark ones are completely absorbed in their squabble, the man she's sitting on talks to her gently, asking if she needs anything or if she's tired. Answering 'no' to both, questions again start popping up in her mind and she eagerly unleashes them on the Blue man, barely leaving him enough time to answer until he asks his own question.

_"What's your name?"_

_"I don't have one."_

_"Did the… Grey men not call you anything?"_

_"Girl. Or Q759. Is your name Capitaine?"_

_"No, it's Steve. Last name Rogers."_

"_Steve Rogers_," she repeats. It's a strange name.

_"Yes."_

The dark haired man calls to Steve, and she recognizes the name among the sounds she knows are words yet hold no meaning to her. Capitaine's attention is kept on the conversation for a time, but the child plays with his hand for something to do, making the long fingers bend and move as she pleases. It's not like hers, his skin. Hers is far lighter and more marked than his. She slides the black sleeve up again, revealing an expanse of smoothness that she brushes her own flawed palm over. The Grey had skin like this, perfect and even. Or perhaps it's just her who is damaged.

She may have lied earlier when she said she wasn't tired. But she wasn't. Just a bit now. She didn't lie.  
_Steve_ doesn't make a fuss when she drops her head to his chest, and she listens to a strangely comforting sound that comes from his heart. She's never heard someone's heart before. He merely secures a sturdy arm around her, saying something to the other two in the room and their arguing continues at a quieter volume and the girl sleeps.

.  
.

The two are in the "friendly interrogation" room, the rest of the team hidden by the one way mirror. It's more of a little bedroom than a room for tricking and pressuring information out of captives, but then again the little girl isn't much of a captive, all too willingly munching on a plate of apple slices and answering questions posed gently by Steve.

They're together by coincidence, somehow each of their schedules lining up perfectly to allow them to come see the child that's claimed their Captain. There are three in the faux bedroom. The Captain in civvies, the nameless girl dressed down to panties and an undershirt, and Steve's assigned doctor who carefully examines the child for signs of harm. There aren't many SHIELD docs who know what they're doing in regards to children and aren't specialists who make rounds from base to base, luckily Dr Keller happens to have been a pediatrician before joining SHIELD and eventually being put on super soldier watch.

The room is wired with microphones hidden in all places, allowing the onlookers to listen-in through small black speakers in the observation area. A monitor in their little viewing room has a translation of the conversation typed out, a translator working quickly as the exchange unfolds.

"Any of you know Steve could speak French?" the archer asks. He's met with answers in the negative save for one.

"'Course he can speak French. Had two on the team who could speak it, way back when, and we spent a good amount of time in French territory. He picks up on things real quick and languages aren't an exception." The man with the metal arm steps closer to the glass. "Then again, I'd hoped that he woulda picked up a gal a bit older with that added advantage."

He's elbowed sharply in the side, a reprimanding "James" added as well from the room's sole red head.

"_Oui, Capitaine."_

" _Ça fait long temps? Était t-il toujours comme ça?" _

"_Non, les Gris l'ont fait."_

"The people there did it to her, apparently. She sees things as blurs of colour, nothing's really clear. I guess that's why she calls people by the colours they're wearing– can't see anything else," Steve summarizes from a string of questions and answers, Dr Keller shining her flashlight in the girl's eyes again. He's not far from his charge, but he knows to give the doctor room to work.

"Well, apart from her vision and general malnutrition, she's good to go."  
"And the scars?"

"Relatively old or healing well. There's not really anything I can do for them." The doctor lifts a hand to pet the child's head, in what for most is a soothing gesture. Instead, the child flinches away, hops off the bed and hides behind Steve's legs. "Sorry. Maybe just a handshake?" The doc sticks out her hand, crouching to the child's level and smiling slightly. She peeks around him and it takes a nod and smile from Steve to get the girl to briefly fit her hand into the larger one.

"I for one think the kid should stay with Steve," Banner announces, once there are only two in the interrogation room, Dr Keller having left assuring Steve that all was well. "She trusts him, and it seems no one else. Plus, he likes her."

"And I have a feeling Rogers won't give her to SHIELD without a fight," the Director sighs. "Seems I don't have much choice, and I can already see where your votes are cast."

"We don't know anything about the kid's possible abilities and setting those off because of emotions, more specifically: feeling scared, which could be extremely hazardous," the inventor adds, his argument of logic being a strong one that seems to move the Director in the right direction.

"She's four, five at the most. Being held in places SHIELD deems secure will not be doing anything for her psyche."

The Director passes his gaze from face to face, meeting expressions of controlled blankness that still urge him to allow this, resoluteness, and a distinct 'Say what you will but I'm still doing whatever the hell I want despite it'. "The girl stays with Rogers; he'll be assigned her legal guardian. Get the forms from Coulson. Tell the Captain that I want detailed reports every week and check-ins every month. But if this gets fucked up in the slightest, it's on all your heads as well."

With that the Director storms off, grateful at least that the kid had latched on to a (relatively) responsible one like Rogers, rather than Stark or Barnes. Now if only she weren't a potential hazard to the general public.

* * *

/ Waited an hour for my bus so I could go home and this was produced with a ballpoint pen and a handful of napkins. Maybe my bus will show up tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

They spend some time in a different room, one where the _Capitaine_ writes things on a stack of papers while a man in black sits behind a table quietly. It feels like hours and hours and _Steve_ keeps his mind on his task, leaving the room in silence and the girl bored.

She thinks about what it'll be like, now that she's not at the Facility. The sun is bright and makes her cover her eyes, but it's also warm which she likes very much. Steve is also warm, both his skin and how he is. The Grey always took care not to make skin on skin contact with her, and took even more care not to be friendly. She knows what being friendly looks like though, the Grey were nice to each other. Touches, congratulations, smiles; all things she never got. Steve has smiled and held her more in the past few hours than she can remember the Grey doing in her entire life. She's not afraid of Steve.

The _Capitaine_ looks up from the papers and shifts his gaze to her. His brow furrows and lips twitch downward. Has she done something?

"T'as besoin d'un nom," he mumbles to himself, though she hears it clearly from her place beside him. To the man in black he says, "She'll need an identity."

"We've got agents working on it. They should be done soon."

It turns out 'soon' is a loose term and it's another hour before everything's filled out and completed. But she got a muffin, which she finds absolutely delicious (she's never had a muffin before). Another person in black comes in – this time a woman – and hands the _Capitaine_ more papers. These ones he doesn't take the pen to however, and simply reads over them.

"Name, Cordelia Vallot. That's kinda… odd."

"Agent Lewis helped create the new identity."

Steve chuckles. "Yeah, not like Darcy to think up something normal. Is this everything?"

"For now, yes. You'll have to come back throughout the week for more med checks, but aside from that you're all setup."

"Thanks, Phil. Allons-y, petite."

"Où va-t-on?"

"Home."

.

.

"Cor…délia. Cordélia." She's been testing out the name, saying it aloud since they left SHIELD. Steve's not sure if she likes it or not, if anything the name seems to puzzle her.

"Dites-le," she says from her perch on the counter where she watches him make dinner.

"Ton nom?"

"Oui!"

"Cordelia," he answers. She says her name again, this time trying to emulate his accent and resulting in a gross disfigurement of the word. Cordelia frowns and tries again, this attempt a little better but still sounding rather like a pirate with a toothache.

"T'auras besoin d'apprendre l'anglais," Steve states, dumping the chopped vegetables into the pot.

"Pourquoi?"

"Parce que nous vivons aux États-Unis et ici on parle l'anglais."

"Alles ist vergänglich."

He blinks at her in surprise, eyebrows shooting upward.

"L'anglais n'est pas passé encore. Et l'allemand n'est pas un langue de ce pays."

"Mais–!"

"On ne le discute pas. C'est nécessaire. Veux-tu comprendre ce que le reste dissent?"

"Oui."

"Good. Soup's done now, so let's eat."

Cordelia scowls at him, knowing that the switch of language is to poke fun at her. He smiles though, ruffles her hair, and hauls her off the counter.

Standing on the ground, the girl only comes up to his hips. _So small_, he thinks, and wonders what it will be like watching her grow. Who will she be? Where will she find her niche? Maybe that's the true appeal of children. Not their cuteness or innocence, but their potential as people. They will take on roles in society and become leaders and creators. In them is the future, and it's only now that Steve really understands what people mean when they say that they _are_ the future.

"J'ai faim," she says, smiling up at him with a hopeful expression, previous frustration with him seemingly gone.

_What future will you bring?_

.

.

In the morning he peeks into her room, making sure that all is well and that she sleeps soundly. He doesn't plan on waking her, it's only six and even his team doesn't like being up so early. And kids are supposed to get a lot of sleep, according to what he's read. The fact that he's going to take care of Cordelia for – he doesn't really know how long, but it'll probably be a while – has yet to fully sink in. He'd taken her in so that she wouldn't be treated as a specimen, not for longer than she already had been. But for all his reputation for having a plan, he hadn't quite thought farther ahead than 'keep her out of SHIELD labs'. Now it seems like he'll be raising a child.

"What've I gotten myself into," he mumbles.

Sticking his head past the doorway, he finds the room dark without the usual rays of sunlight to illuminate it. Cordelia lies in her bed, covers neat and exactly as he'd left them when he tucked her in last night. Odd that she hasn't moved about in her sleep, that the comforter is untouched.

"Capitaine?" a small voice calls out from the dark. Afraid. In two long strides that waste not a moment, he's beside her, bed dipping where he sits and Cordelia sitting up and scooting closer to him.

"Tu ne dors pas?"

"Non."

"Mauvais rêves?"

"Non."

"Alors qu'est-ce que c'est?"

Her head shakes vigorously in a plain reluctance to put forth her fears.

"Peux-tu allumer la lumière, s'il vous plait?" she requests after a few minutes of silence. Her odd eyes look pleadingly at him, and he gets up without further persuasion.

Steve looks to the drawn curtain, partially open and letting in some streetlight, though not much. His eyes move then to the light switch, he notes that it's well above the five-year-old's reach. It takes him only a second to flip the switch, and suddenly the room is filled with light, casting away the all consuming shadow of the night. He goes again to the bed, sitting up against the wall and letting Cordelia climb up into his lap. She leans against him, small hands latching onto the spaces between the buttons of his shirt. He drapes a heavy arm over her leg, the hand with it rubbing slow circles over her back. The other hand cradles her head, her dark hair warm and smooth under his palm and fingers.

She doesn't cry, but it doesn't take a genius or an outright declaration to figure out that the child is afraid. He holds her closer because physical contact is something he's figured out that she likes, and is proven when she relaxes her body and her fists unclench.

Steve settles to let her tell him what's bothering her when she's ready. For now he starts talking to her softly, both to try and comfort her and to fill the silence that's bordering on suffocating.

"On a tout sortes de choses à faire aujourd'hui. On va visiter le médecin, aller au magasin acheter des choses que t'as besoin et peut-être Bucky va nous joindre."

"Bucky?"

"Un de mes amis. Il est essentiellement mon frère."

"Est-ce que Monsieur Bucky est comme toi?"

"Pas vraiment, mais tu vas l'aimer. Veux-tu t'endormir encore?"

"Non."

He gets up then, the child still in his arms and swings her twice. Cordelia giggles and reaches up to cling to his neck. She knows he won't drop her, but she likes to be sure of things.

"Allons. On a toute une journée devant nous."

* * *

/ So this chapter's been sitting around on construction paper for a couple days now, but issues with internet access have postponed its release (also because going on FF at the library feels awkward. we've got really nosy librarians). If this chapter feels really dialogue-y and irksome because it's not in English, so sorry. She'll be learning English soon though, so bear with me :)

\\ translations:

["You need a name."]

["Let's go, little."  
"Where are we going?"]

["Say it."  
"Your name?"  
"Yes."]

["You'll need to learn English."  
"Why?"  
"Because we live in the United States and here we speak English."  
"All things must pass."  
"English hasn't passed yet. And German isn't one of this country's languages."  
"But–!"  
"We're not arguing this. It's necessary. Do you want to understand what everyone says?"  
"Yes."]

["You're not sleeping?"  
"No."  
"Bad dreams?"  
"No."  
"So, what is it?"]

["Can you turn on the light, please?"]

["We have all sorts of things to do today. We'll go to the doctor's, go shopping for things you need, and maybe Bucky'll join us."  
"Bucky?"  
"One of my friends. He's practically my brother."  
"Is Mr Bucky like you?"  
"Not really, but you'll like him. Do you want to go back to sleep?"  
"No."

"Come on. We have an entire day ahead of us."]


	4. Chapter 4

She goes to a therapist once a week, pouting dejectedly the entire ride there. Natasha suggested it, to help the little girl sort out her feelings and experiences. The problem, Steve's found though – he goes to translate between patient and doctor as well as Cordelia outright refusing to sit through the sessions without him – is that her thoughts are pretty straightforward and her feelings simple. Often her responses to the recurrent "And how does that make you feel?" is "I didn't like it" or "I liked it". Surprisingly enough there are quite a few things sorted under "I liked it". Fruit, baths, math, her fuzzy red blanket… All little insignificant things, but important enough to her to be a comfort after the things "I didn't like".

Dr Lark tries to get her to talk about the unpleasant things, but only gets so far before the child is quivering with relived fear of pain and torment. In the time she's been away from the Facility, she's quickly learned bits and pieces of social norms, and after the first three sessions with Dr Lark she knows that it's completely okay to be terrified and sickened by the things they did to her. Instead of keeping her fear bottled, she now lets it spill over and out for them to see.

Cordelia was fairly good at keeping fear hidden though, and it had been more than a bit of a shock to Steve to listen to Cordelia describe the things she felt the Grey doing to her eyes with only the slightest visible discomfort. They'd been having lunch, and Cordelia had wished that she could see things properly. Steve had been curious, having kept it at bay in favour of letting her settle in had asked what had happened to her eyes. They went in for an extra session that afternoon.

She's not necessarily afraid of the memories, and Steve can see the shift from the indifference she'd begun with to something more unsettled. Progress is being made, nevertheless, and even Dr Lark is pleased with the leaps she's made, so Steve figures everything's alright.

That doesn't mean there aren't things he worries about.

Her sleep isn't as sound as he thinks it should be, and most mornings he finds her awake in her bed listening to the radio that doubles as her clock. At first he thought she was just an early riser and that she didn't need as much sleep as children her age. In the afternoons though, she falls asleep during whatever they're doing, and stays sleeping for two full hours. The naps are inevitable and daily, and Bucky has a good laugh when she's up on Steve's shoulders and then is slumped over his head, fast asleep.

.

.

She finds him in his room, late one night long after he's tucked her in. It's the first time she's ever left her room at night and every little noise has her flinching and whirling around to face it. Darkness surrounds her, blanketing her in blinding obscurity that has her walking into the wall twice before she figures to keep a hand trailing against it.

When she sees the yellowed light of the bedroom down the hall, her footsteps quicken as she stumbles in.

He's sitting in his bed, at least double the size of hers but the _Capitaine_ is infinitely bigger than her and it makes sense that his bed is bigger. She'd been worried that he would be asleep, but he isn't, doing what exactly though she has no idea. Something that needs light since there's some coming from a lamp beside him, it looks like he's reading. Her eyes are stupid and useless, she knows.

"Petite?" he says, surprise colouring his tone. "Why aren't you sleeping?" He talks carefully for her, something her English teacher had implored him to do as his accent sometimes doesn't make sense. At least to her.

"Too black," she answers, climbing up onto the bed and finding a comfortable spot against his side. Everything is warmer near him, and she likes that the chill of loneliness is never there when he is.

"What's too black?"

"My room." Steve doesn't say anything for a time, thinking, and Cordelia snuggles into the nook between his arm and side.

"C'est trop noir?"

"Oui."

"Is that why you're always awake at six in the morning?"

"Oui."

He tries to think of explanations for the fear, tries to figure out how deeply rooted it is. Deep enough to keep her awake most nights, it seems. His ponderings are pushed aside when Cordelia shifts and asks a question.

"I can stay here?"

"Oui, ma petite."

They lay under the covers and the light in his room is left on. Steve does his best to try and sleep, and Cordelia holds his hand in both of hers, pulling it closer to her cheek.

There are scars littering her body. Of cuts and staples and stitchings made by the Grey that Steve hates more and more each time Cordelia talks about them. The lines run across her front and her back, are almost carvings on her arms. Her legs are untouched for some reason, and her face for the most part is left alone. There are small burn marks under her eyes from whatever had been done to the beautiful little spheres. Just above an eyebrow is a scar that curves up to her temple– but it's kept hidden by the bangs that nearly fall into her eyes.

He's not surprised when she starts speaking, and her hold tightens on his hand.

"Dans l'Établissement, les gris ne fermaient jamais les lumières."

"You've never slept with the lights off."

"Pas avant que j'ai venu ici."

"Would you like me to leave your light on at night?"

"C'est normal, dormir sans lumière?"

"Generally, but you don't have to if you don't want."

"Je veux être normal," she mumbles into the pillow and no more is said.

.

.

There's talk of eye surgery, because Cordelia's eyes keep her from reading, writing, discerning people accurately, walking without crashing into people and furniture… She often catches herself sulking and frowning when arrangements have to be made to accommodate the blurs she sees. They've tried getting her glasses, but that only provided fuzzy contours and did not permit her to read.

Her memories of being able to see clearly are vague, though she doesn't think the Grey had done it all that long ago. They'd wanted to improve her eyes. Deeper field of vision, less light required, faster and more precise focusing… And the end result of the near loss of one of her senses.

Doctors examine her and shine bright lights into her eyes. They ask her questions that have to be simplified, put her under machines that scan her, get her to describe what happened to her eyes at the Facility, and she holds onto the _Capitaine_ throughout each inspection.

.

.

"Her English is getting better."

"Yeah, although she still has trouble putting the words together on her own."

"She's fairly talkative though, so I'll bet that she gets the hang of it quickly."

"We started talking about school."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She wants to, and it'd be good for her to interact with kids her age."

"I hear a 'but' coming in."

"But it's been months and we still don't know if she has any _special_ talents. I don't want her to risk putting the other kids in danger. There's also the issue of her eyesight, though we can probably work around that."

On the grass, Cordelia giggles noisily as she chases the bubbles drifting on the warm breeze. Small arms reach forward and fingers poke out to pop the colourful soapy spheres. Natasha watches with a smile as James blows on the plastic wand for the child.

They'd found the bubble soap on their last mission, right in the middle of a shootout as they went to apprehend the head of a human trafficking organization. Natasha had smacked him afterward, for wasting precious seconds to lower one of his guns and pick up the multi-coloured bottle. He'd merely grinned and said something about favourite nieces.

"They're not normal bubbles, they're coloured, Natalia. She'll be able to see them," he'd explained, a strange amount of excitement in his tone considering they'd just "accidentally" killed their mark.

The change in him is astounding, the way he can be so free with his smiles and how happy they actually are, compared to when they'd first brought him back. He's smiling now with Steve's kid, the look of fondness on his face something she hasn't ever seen so openly displayed.

"How's he been, haven't seen you guys in a while," Steve inquires, and Natasha can hear the brotherly love (and worry) in his tone

"Well enough, you know how some days are. But it's been good."

"I'm glad."

When child and man-child-spy return to the garden table, they're covered in blues, greens, reds, and even more colours than a rainbow. Both are grinning without a care. Natasha snaps a picture.

"Am I bleu?" Although it comes out more as one word than an actual sentence with how fast she's talking.

"Yes, you are; and orange, and pink, and green." She continues chattering cheerfully, not noticing that her words slip in and out of languages.

Steve chucks a wet cloth at James' head without warning. He intercepts it with a metal hand and a muttered, "Punk". For the girl Steve takes another cloth and starts wiping at her face and arms. She scrunches her face and wiggles her nose in displeasure but does nothing to stop him.

Natasha observes the two with interest. She'd never had much of a childhood. Her childhood was violent and bloody, nothing like what she's seeing now. Steve is gentle with her, brushing aside the bangs to get her forehead with a softness contradictory of his super-strength.

Cordelia is cute, as most children are. Black hair falls straight, brushing over her shoulders and swishing when she moves her head quickly. Her face does not resemble Steve's in the slightest, apart from the basics of having eyes, a nose, mouth, and skin on it. Steve's eyes are blue, hers are cloudy teal and violet. His nose is sharp and aquiline, hers is a button. If she does start school in the coming year, then there will be strange looks from teachers and parents expecting Asiatic parents for the child, and instead there is Steve who is as stereotypically American in looks as it gets.

But despite the fact that there is no way they are related, Natasha would have to be blind to not pick up on the bond that they share. Parent and child. Father and daughter. Natasha knows the details of the arrangement. He is her legal guardian and is to care for her. There is nothing stated about a familial relationship or adoption and so according to the papers, Steve is not Cordelia's father.  
However, in what matters most, he undeniably is.

* * *

/ This chapter feels kinda messy, but I'm posting it anyway because I feel like it. Thanks reviewers, I love hearing what you people (I'm going to assume you're all people) think. I think we'll have some other Avengers' appearances next chapter. And maybe an explosion? So many plot bunnies for these two...

To **Hoperise**, I've got some back story planned for Bucky, but I'm not sure when I'll be slipping that in. As it is, it's just a really dialogue-y bit that is rather ramble-y. I shall work on it.

\\ translations:

["It's too dark?"

"Yes."]

["In the Facility, the Grey never turned off the lights."

"Not before I came here."

"Is sleeping without light normal?"

"I want to be normal"]


End file.
